


a careless rendezvous

by ayuminb



Series: Jonsa Smut Week [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (but not the Heir), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dry Humping, F/M, Hand Jobs, Horny Teenagers, Jon Snow is a Stark, Jon is Shook, Jon's Raised by Robert/Lyanna, Jonsa Smut Week, Lyanna Marries Robert AU, Lyanna Stark Lives AU, Post-Canon, Post-Series, R plus L equals J, Sansa is a Sinnamon Roll, jon is a prince
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 00:31:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12876348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: “You’re not the only one who’s heard whispers, Jon,” she tugs him back down, pulling his bottom lip between her teeth – he wonders where’d his innocent girl go, “You’ve my permission.”[written for theJonsa Smut Week, day five - getting caught]





	a careless rendezvous

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to say thanks for all the lovely comments in previous fics, and that I will reply to them after this week is over :'D  
>  ~~and i've bathed myself in holy water~~

It’s a progressive thing.

 

They don’t set off to let their impulses rule them, but… Jon truly, _honestly_ , can’t find it in himself to stop.

 

*****

 

He’s always had a soft spot for his cousin Sansa. Gentle, sweet-smelling, well-mannered Sansa. That even when he gets along much better with Arya, can’t really stop tracking her every move whenever she passes by the training grounds. And she seems to do that plenty when he’s the one training, flashing him smiles or stopping to give him encouragements and—Gods, is it any wonder why he fell so willingly in love with her? No, of course not. Her smiles and her sweet words will forever be the greatest reward.

 

What had prompted it? Probably those five years fostering here at Winterfell, under his Uncle Ned. He’s sure he’d acquired that soft spot for Sansa then. She’s always been such a bright girl – kind and gentle and always so ready to please.

 

The time after he returned to King’s Landing had been a mix of misery and contentment. He’d _missed_ her – with an acute desperation that had frightened him, but had also been so very glad to be back with Mother and Father and his sisters and brothers. Thus the conflict of feelings.

 

Jon won’t lie and say he doesn’t look forward to the yearly visits to Winterfell after. Mother always insisted, she would never let go of her Northern roots – each and every one of her children have been raised to appreciate both their parents’ birth homes.

 

_(Although, he’s a particular case; being no Baratheon. Jon’s very aware of who his birth father is, but as such, he’s also aware of all that man had done–no. His Father, the man who’s raised him, Robert Baratheon. Jon honors him in deeds if not in name, while honoring his Mother in both deed and name._

_He’s quite happy being Jon Stark.)_

 

Not being the Heir has it’s perks, too. Sometimes – only sometimes, Jon’s allowed to remains more than the single moon’s turn his family can afford to be away from King’s Landing. Never too long, there are still responsibilities to attend to in the Capital.

 

So, no, he won’t lie – but he won’t say that lately it’s more to do with his fire-kissed cousin, the _pretty_ one, than connecting with his Mother’s roots.

 

*****

 

The feast is still in full swing when Jon decides to slip out of the Great Hall, hopefully unnoticed. But if someone caught sight of him, no one will truly follow him, thinking he would most likely return to his assigned chambers and, while normally he would.

 

Not tonight.

 

No, tonight—the first night being back in Winterfell in over a year—he’s determined to spend some time alone Sansa before they day is truly over. He knows come dawn, Jon will have his hours full of his more demanding cousins. His brothers and sisters—pretty much everyone.

 

But Sansa.

 

He rounds a corner, barely taking a few steps when a hand comes out of nowhere and pull him behind one of the many tapestries covering the deserted alcoves littering the hallway. Jon smirks, even as his back hits the stonewalls, and traps the hand bunching up his doublet against his chest.

 

“Careful, M’lady, this doublet is new – a present from my beloved cousin.”

 

The smirk tugging at her lips is surprising, and all too enticing; Sansa flattens her hand over his chest, straightening out the creases she’d made. “Forgive me, My Prince. It is a handsome present.”

 

Jon fits his hands over her hips, pulling her closer and leaning down to nuzzle along the line of her jaw. “Mmm, she has very skilled fingers.”

 

Her breath catches; he’s meant his comment innocently enough – Sansa _is_ very talented with a needle, but the way he’d _phrased_ it. It’s not like he would know, like _she_ would know, all they’ve done so far is exchange more and more daring kisses. And even those aren’t like the ones he’d overheard in whispered conversations—open-mouthed, where he might slip his tongue past her lips. Jon can’t exactly give her those; last time they’d been alone, Sansa had been a child of four-and-ten.

 

 _She’s older now_ , he thinks, a year, perhaps, but older. Would she agree, if he were to ask? Sansa’s always been a curious girl. His guts twist and flutter at the very thought—he walks her backwards, until her back collides with the wall, gently, moves his lips to her ear. He won’t deny the pleasure that courses through him at her soft moan.

 

“I want to kiss you,” he rasps, pushing his body closer.

 

“I’ve already given you permission to kiss me to your heart’s content,” is her breathy reply.

 

Jon bits back a groan; aye, that is _true_ , she has. But those were the innocent little kisses they’ve shared before—gentle if urgent meetings of closed lips. Not the heady things that plague his mind at night and follow him into his dreams.

 

Gods but he wants to do _more_ than just kiss.

 

“Properly kiss you,” he tries to clarify, but finds himself at a loss for words.

 

Sansa tilts her head to look at him, intently – she smiles, then, trails her hands up his chest and around his neck. He’s about to ask, if that’s a yes, when she pulls him down rather roughly, kissing him almost desperately.

 

There’s not suppressing his groan when her tongue pushes past his lips, meeting his own. There’s no denying the urgency – she angles her head and, there’s not much finesse in the kiss, but it’s _alright_. Jon kind of likes that they get to learn this together.

 

He draws away slowly, tugging at her bottom lip with the lightest of nips, and looks at her in wonder; she smirks fully, in satisfaction, and it occurs to him that she’s probably planned this all along.

 

“Sansa,” he doesn’t mean to whimper her name like that.

 

“You’re not the only one who’s heard whispers, Jon,” she tugs him back down, pulling his bottom lip between her teeth – he wonders where’d his innocent girl go, “You’ve my permission.”

 

“To kiss?”

 

There – that all too _tempting_ smirk. Sansa drags her hands back down, raking her nails over his chest in their descent; the way she gazes up at him from under her lashes—Jon’s ready to _pounce_.

 

“And more.”

 

He’s _about_ to pounce when the sound of a door slamming shut startles them, and they spring back as if burned. Both sheepish and with burning cheeks.

 

Of course, no one would truly say anything to them—to their faces—if they were to be caught, but word would get fast to their parents’ ears and that – that’s something Jon would rather avoid.

 

He doesn’t really want to find out what their reaction would be, to this.

 

Sansa clears her throat, smiles at him; she’s all put together again, unlike him.

 

“I bid you a good night, My Prince,” she says, and hastens to leave.

 

Jon catches her hand, though, feeling like someone’s just knocked the air out of him; it’s that smirk of hers, _certainly_. “And I you, My Lady,” he manages to say, placing a kiss on her knuckles before allowing her to slip away.

 

*****

 

Truly, they don’t set out to push boundaries.

 

But Sansa sorely tests his control, enjoys too much seeing him become a fumbling mess under her lips and entirely too bold fingers. He tries to return the favor, has managed quite a few times in the past few days – leaving her _breathless_ and wanting, but she never ceases to surprise him.

 

His body still shudders in remembered pleasure, from the time she’d deftly unlaced his breeches to slide her hand in, stroking his cock with a sort of innocent wonder etched in her face that made him spill embarrassingly fast. Sansa had not minded; pupils blown wide, she’d kissed him hungrily before leaving for her lessons.

 

More often than not, she’s left him in disarray, in the middle of a hallway, in the stables, on his way to the training grounds. More often than _not_ , Jon’s had to scramble for a believable excuse for his state of messiness; she’s always sneaking up on him when he least _expects_ it, using her knowledge of Winterfell to her advantage.

 

He manages to surprise her, catches her alone in the library today. Sneaking up on her is easy, resisting the urge to pin her to the bookshelf and kiss her silly, not so much.

 

“You’re wicked, M'lady,” he whispers, hands bracing his weight on the bookshelf and trapping her to it; he’ll count her little jump as a victory. “Truly wicked.”

 

Sansa steps closer to the shelf, as close as possible – he follows, letting his body meet hers, at last. From this angle, she looks so small and fragile, _delicate_ ; which she is, but deceptively so, for he knows the strength she carries under her perfectly polished courtesies.

 

“A Lady oughtn’t be like that—” his hands close around her waist, and whatever space between them is gone “—teasing so mercilessly. Whatever will your Septa think?”

 

“Nothing good, I’m sure.”

 

Her hands grab at his wrist, but far from removing his hands from her, Sansa tugs them up, up, _up_ until he feels the base of her swelling chest. A squeeze is all he needs to remember her words – to his heart’s _content_. He hisses at the first contact, hands enveloping her breasts, and reveling in the feel of them; their weight and how her hardened nipples poke at his palms even through the layers of her gown. He hisses because she arches her back, equally overcome with the sensations, pushing her bum against his groin.

 

She gasps – there’s no mistaking his twitching cock.

 

“Jon…”

 

He doesn’t really want to rut against her like an _animal_ , but oh Sansa makes it so very difficult, pressing her bum back into his groin every time he squeezes her tits. It’s maddening; he drops one of his hands to her hips, steadying her movements if only to gain a little of his control back. Jon doesn’t protests much when she shoves his hand away from her chest, thinks it better as now he has a better hold of her hips and can grind more firmly into her.

 

It isn’t enough.

 

“I need more,” her plea comes unbidden; Sansa once again grabs hold of his hands only now, when they move back to her chest, there’s only a thin layer of clothing impeding him from feeling her smooth skin.

 

He still marvels at the feel of her tits, how much better it is now, despite the remaining barrier; he pinches one of her nipples, tugging and twisting, as he trails his free hand down the planes of her abdomen. It’s a _glorious_ thing, knowing she’s undone the laces of her bodice all the way down to the skirts of her gown for him.

 

She turns her head to the side, raising her right hand to tug his head forward – he presses his lips to her cheek, letting out a strangled moan. The hand placed over her tummy stills, he won’t move it until she tells him to; the other keeps alternating his attention from one teat to the other. They both gasps for breath, as if having recently run a great distance— _waiting_.

 

Jon rocks his hips slowly, grinding against her bum almost lazily; she meets his actions, undulating her whole body so she’s pressing into all the right place.

 

That’s still not enough.

 

_What will be enough?_

 

That’s a question he’d rather not answer now.

 

“Jon.”

 

“Tell me,” and then he corrects, “ _show_ me.”

 

She does – pushes the hand at her waist down and under her skirt. The fit of her gown makes it a little difficult to reach between her legs; but once Sansa retracts her own hand, Jon has an easier access to her.

 

The heat – Gods have _mercy_ , but he would gladly bury himself in her and never leave— _bury my face between her legs and never stop_. Jon strokes her inner thigh gently, soothing circles that do little to tame the storm raging within him and, by the sound of it, within _Sansa_ as well. And then, he cups her mound, slides his hand further down, feels her wet and yearning. He slides his hand back and forth, rubbing at her folds through the clothes. And working his fingers through the fabrics might be well enough for her, but it’s still not for him.

 

“Gods, I can’t, not like this—” he pulls away, despite protests on her part, only so he can turn her around; he wants to be facing her for this “—I can make it better, let me make it _better_ , Sansa.”

 

“Yes,” she gasps, tugging insistently at his doublet, until he takes it off. “Yes, _please_.”

 

He crashes his lips to hers, bruising and passionate. Jon begins gathering her skirts, pushing them up, up, _up_ until he can slide one of his legs between hers – Sansa grinds into his thigh, and he nearly comes right there and then.

 

“Fuck, _Sansa_.”

 

It’s only natural that he would hike her leg higher on his hip, begin to thrust into her, harder and faster with each passing second, swallow her moans. Only natural that his hands would find her bum, squeezing the delightfully soft flesh as they rock against each other. Only right that he would take a second to stop and pull off his tunic as she so prettily asks him to bare his chest.

 

But a second is all it takes for reality to burst their bubble.

 

“Seven Hells!”

 

It’s not even a scream – more like a horrified gasp.

 

It freezes them nonetheless, but they don’t spring apart—Jon doesn’t move away, all too aware to the state of Sansa’s gown, _no_. No, he’ll move away once she’s fixed her clothes, which is what prompts him move his hands to her waist—he’d forgotten for a moment where they rested—and step away from the bookshelf, bringing her along. He turns enough so his body covers Sansa; he doesn’t even need to turn around and face the person who’s managed to sneak up on them.

 

“Mother!”

 

Sansa’s despairing gasp is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Relax, they're not in trouble. The parents are just shook - except Robert, he's proud of his boy. Also, a betrothal happens then, of course.


End file.
